Hindsight
by Spiritus Erroneus
Summary: A Winchester's childhood isn't playing little league and chasing tail. Random, one-shot memories.
1. Four Corners Area, 1996

Disclaimer: Sad as it is, I'm only borrowing. They're all Kripke's.

Author's Note: A memory of Dean's. One Winchester's take on the family relationships. Let me know if I should continue - Reviews, please!

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Dad's yelling something at me, but I can't hear it. What I can hear is its growl, and what I can smell is its rank blood-and-flesh breath. I can feel its claws in my chest, its hot breath on my neck. Dad's too far away, he'll never make it in time. I'm an inch away from death and all I'm thinking is, who's going to take Sam to his soccer game on Thursday? Who's going to help Dad kill this thing after it rips me to shreds? That's when I hear the engine. The headlights nearly blind me. They stun the Skinwalker long enough for me to get out from under it. I roll away and I hear the car hit it, plowing it into some bushes. I see Sammy in the driver's seat, his face white and his hands clenched on the wheel. It's the first time he's driven outside of my lessons at Bobby's. Dad is there burning a clip into the thing in a few seconds. Once he's sure it's dead, he runs over to me. I groan and try to sit up so he'll know I'm okay.

"Dean, are you okay?" he asks immediately. "Talk to me, son."

"I'm all right, Dad," I tell him, even though I sure don't feel like it.

He helps me to my feet, and that's when it starts. "Boy, that was stupid and reckless," he berates me. "If your brother hadn't acted quick, you'd be dead."

"It was sneaking up on you, Dad, I had to do something," I argue weakly, hobbling along while he supports most of my weight. The claw wounds on my chest burn like hell. Blood's getting all over my favorite shirt. Guilt and shame settle in alongside the physical pain.

"I could have handled it. Don't you ever do something dumb like that again, Dean, or I'm taking you off the job." It's a threat with a lot of weight behind it. He opens the door, helping me into the backseat. "Let's get you to the hospital."

Sam slides over to the passenger seat. He's shaking a little. He turns around once Dad has me in the car, leaning over the back of the seat. "Dean, are you all right?" he asks immediately, his doe eyes all fearful.

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm awesome," I tell him, trying not to sound too sarcastic. He's really shaken up. "Thanks for the save. You took that sucker out." He looks slightly relieved.

Dad's outside, lighting the thing on fire. Once it's blazing, he gets in the driver's seat. "We'll come back and clean up the evidence later," he says before he turns to Sammy and gives him a proud look. "Good job, Sam. Quick thinking. You saved your brother's life." I try to remember the last time he gave me a compliment like that. Nothing comes to mind.

We drive back toward civilization, and I'm bleeding all over the seats. I'm not feeling so good, and Sam can tell. He keeps glancing back at me every few seconds. _I Love the Night _by BOC is playing over the stereo. I don't really like the song, mostly because it makes Dad think about Mom. Plus, it's a little slow and sappy for me. I like the stuff I can rock to.

I know I'm not going to die. I mean, I'm bleeding a lot, but it was about to gnaw on my jugular. After that, those claw gouges are just scratches. Plus, we're almost to the hospital. A few stitches and an overnight stay will have me back on my feet in no time. Or at least back in the hotel room. We pull up to the hospital, and Dad tells us our story. "We were camping up in the woods, and Dean left the tent. It was a bear." It's close enough to the truth. "Sam, help me with your brother." They get me out, throwing my arms over their shoulders, and they basically have to drag me into the ER. It's not that hard because Sammy's growing like a weed, just a couple of inches shorter than me. I'm dizzy and about as weak as a kitten.

As soon as we get in there, people start swarming around me, getting me on a gurney and cutting my shirt off. I try to argue when I remember that it's my favorite. I guess it's ruined anyway. They apply pressure until the blood slows down, then they put some stinging stuff on all the cuts to clean them out. They have to numb my whole chest, which feels really weird, but at least I don't feel them sewing me up. They stick a needle in me and start dripping a bag of fluids into my veins to make up for the blood I lost. They tell me I'm real lucky that the claws didn't get any deeper, or I'd be a goner. Then I sleep, because by then I'm too tired to see straight.

They let me out on Wednesday. I go back to the room and get all the rest I can. The next day I get up at seven am and pull on some clothes, one of Dad's loose T-shirts and a pair of Sam's sweatpants, and I wake Sam up. "Get your shiny shorts on, Bro," I order him. "You've got a game in an hour."

He protests like crazy, but in a whisper so we don't wake Dad up. "Dean, you almost got killed, you can't go anywhere yet!"

"I'm fine. The doctors okayed me, didn't they?" I point out.

"Dean, you could pull out your stitches!" he argued.

"How, Sam? I'm just going to be sitting there watching you play. I won't even do the wave, if it makes you happy."

Sam's team loses three to two, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that I'm alive to watch him score a pretty awesome goal, and even sneak in on the wave later on. I even take him out for pizza after they lose, even though he explains that pizza is for the winning team, and the losers get ice cream. Losing sounds like a better deal anyway. He keeps looking at me like I'm going to spring a leak. He shouldn't. He's the one that begged me to come to the game a week ago. He's the reason I'm here.


	2. East Coast, 1994

Disclaimer: Kripke's, but man, are they fun to play with!

A/N: Sammy's perspective now. This takes place in '94, so Sam's 11 and Dean's 15. If the action doesn't seem complete, it's because I was half-asleep when I wrote that part. As always, reviews are my crack!

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I'm sitting in the car. Waiting. I hate waiting, especially alone. The sawed-off that Dad gave me just in case is resting in my lap. I wrap my fingers around it, around the trigger. It doesn't help. Not much has helped since Dad started taking me along on hunts. I can see their shadows through the window of the house. Nothing's happened yet, but it will soon. The wait's almost worse than the fight. Almost.

The worst part is that I'm here. I can't help them. If something goes wrong, one of them could die, and I can't help. I know that they're trying to keep me safe and they'd just trip over me if I went with them, but waiting out here, seeing their shadows, and knowing that if something happens, I'm too far away to help… I can't stand it.

Then it happens, the fight. I, see the shadows move around, get flung around, hear a shotgun go off. I can't tell from the silhouettes, but I think it was Dean that fired the shot. Next thing I know, the front door bursts open and they're running toward the car. They've got the guy they saved with them. He gets in the backseat, and Dad and Dean open the front doors, and I'm squashed on the bench seat between them. Dad guns it.

The guy in the backseat starts asking questions, and Dad and Dean exchange this look that will decide who's got to tell him. Dean loses. "Did you buy that old place recently?" he asks.

"Yeah," the guy replies.

"Well, I'd talk to your realtor, because she sold you a goddamn haunted house. That was an angry spirit."

"But I bought the place five months ago. This freaky shit didn't start until like, two weeks ago," the guy said, obviously freaking out. "Why me? What the hell?"

Dad took a look at the guy over his shoulder. "Great. It's probably cursed object. You bring anything into the house two weeks ago? A thrift store buy or something?"

He considers it. "My sister works in an antique place," he said. "She gave me this old chest that they got from an estate sale. As a late housewarming gift."

"And that's when all this started?" Dad asks. The man nods. "Listen, I'm going to take you back to our motel room and you're going to stay there. Where is the chest?"

"Um, in the living room. Along the wall under the window."

"Okay. We're going to have to salt it and burn it. You're need to stay out of the house until I'm sure it's safe. Got that?"

"Yessir," he replies. I think that Dad in hunter mode must have that effect on people.

They all look beat to hell, and Dad's driving with one arm, the other held to his chest. Dislocated shoulder, from the look of it. I'm about to point it out, but Dean sees my mouth open and elbows me in the ribs, shaking his head barely perceptibly. I get the message: _Not now, we're on a hunt._

We make it back to the hotel, and Dad tells Dean and me to stay put. He gets the guy inside, reloads on rock salt shotgun shells, and slides back into the driver's seat, gunning it back in the direction of the hunt. "Dad," I ask, "why didn't you leave me at the motel?"

"Because I need your help, Sam," he says. "It's gonna take all three of us to get this thing."

Dean looks kind of surprised, but he nods. "What's the game plan, Dad?" he says.

"You and Sam need to that thing into the backyard and salt and burn it," he said. "I'll deal with the spirit." We pull up in front, all piling out. "Sam, salt, Dean, gasoline. There's a matchbook in the pocket of my jacket in the back."

We all grab what we need to, and we do it quick. We fall in behind Dad, who kicks open the door, waving us in ahead of him. Dean goes in first, and I follow him close. My heart's beating so fast. I've never actually faced a spirit before, and from what I know about it, this one's nasty. I'm scared. Scared that it'll get me, scared that it will get Dean or Dad. Mostly, though, I'm scared that I'll screw up the hunt.

We get to the chest. It's about four feet by three feet, but it doesn't look too heavy. It looks like an old pirate chest. I'm about to help Dean lift it when _it_ shows up by the door.

It's all leathery and mummified, dressed in rags, its hollow eyes burning. It flickers, moving unpredictably toward us. I see Dad behind it with his shotgun, then the lid of the trunk flies open, and I'm being pulled into it. The lid slams closed, and no matter how hard I slam against it, it won't open. I'm crammed in the cursed trunk, unable to move much more than my left arm, and suddenly, I know how the spirit died. I start to panic. "Dean!" I yell.

"Sammy!" I hear Dean shout, banging on the lid of the trunk. "Sam, it's all right, we'll get you out of there, okay?"

"Help me," I beg him. "Get me out of here!" It's dark and it smells like seaweed. I hear Dad firing the shotgun a couple times, and a lot of bangs, and a yell. It's quiet for a minute, then I see a crack of light emerge around the edge of the lid. Little by little, it gets bigger, until I can see Dad struggling to keep the lid open while Dean reaches in and pulls me out.

"Sam, are you all right?" Dad asks immediately.

I manage to nod and show him that I've still got the salt. Dean nods, hauling the chest out the door with adrenalin-fueled strength. I follow, pushing and trying to help. He pulls the plug out of the gas can, dousing it in the flammable liquid. I follow, pouring salt over the chest. Flashing his brilliant smile at me, he lights the entire book of matches, throwing it on the damned piece of furniture.

Dad came out when it was burning and he draped his favorite leather jacket over my shoulders. "You did good, Sammy," he tells me, having Dean lead me back to the car. He came out a while later, and we drove back in silence to the motel. Dad takes the guy back to his house, leaving Dean to take care of me.

I drift off to sleep, and I'm trapped in the trunk again. The ghost is there instead of Dean, pushing me in instead of pulling me out. I struggle, but I can't move, and the ghost is strangling me, I can't breathe –

"Sammy! Sam! Wake up, it's just a dream!" Dean's voice rouses me. I open my eyes, and he's there, sitting at the bedside, shaking my shoulder. His face is a portrait of concern. "Hey, Sammy, it's okay, it's just a dream," he repeats.

I try really hard not to cry, but after what happened, after the memory of the claustrophobia and fear, I can't keep back the tears. I turn away from Dean so he won't see what a wuss I am. "Did you get nightmares?" I ask him with a shaky voice. "When you started hunting?"

For a minute, I think he's going to tell me he didn't, which I know is a lie. Instead, he puts his hand on the side of my head. "Yeah, at first," he says softly. "Sometimes I still do. The stuff we fight is pretty scary, huh? But it gets better, Sammy. I hardly ever have nightmares anymore. You'll stop being scared, too."

He's there when I fall asleep, and I sleep like a baby.


End file.
